


Roses in the Hospital

by thechapwiththearms



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Death, Dwight Enys has hanahaki disease, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, One Shot, Pining, TW TERMINAL ILLNESS, Unhappy Ending, Unrealised love, Unrequited Love, a lot of suffering, and it literally kills him, au: hanahaki disease, bi dwight enys, bi enys, dwight has no brain cells and doesn't fully realise this, dwight loves ross, hanahaki, honest to god literally not happy at all, i am legitimately sorry, set sometime shortly after d&c get married, tw blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 21:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechapwiththearms/pseuds/thechapwiththearms
Summary: Dwight Enys is a respected and well-liked doctor with a beautiful wife, a huge estate, and good looks to boot. So, why is he doubled over in his en suite bathroom, coughing up something peculiar? And why does his best friend's help only hurt him more?





	Roses in the Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> No one writes for this pairing so I am making it my mission to do so. Even if my first attempt is an angst-riddled, major-character-death-warning job.

Dwight Enys had a good life. He had a beautiful wife (and dog), ownership of a sprawling estate, and numerous loyal friends and patients. Atop of this, he was infrequently in bad health; being a doctor, he was wise to the various diseases that plagued his peers and the ways in which to avoid and prevent them. He had recently wed the startlingly beautiful Caroline, whom he had thought to be the love of his life. All things considered, the life that Enys led would lead one to assume that he was content. Jovial, even.

So, why was he in such excruciating pain? At first, he had thought it insignificant, a simple cough that he would dispel of its own accord. Now, he was doubled over in the small bathroom which adjoined to the bedroom that he shared with his wife, coughing and hacking until his lungs near gave out. Tears stained his reddened complexion. Dressed only in a nightshirt, the doctor clutched his abdomen tightly as he spluttered, wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath. Easing his grip, his hands began to tremble violently. In this moment, he was immensely glad that Caroline was away in London.

Perhaps the most vexing thing of all was that Dwight could not for the life of him figure out the root cause of his condition. It seemed to him that he had exhausted every viable possibility: lung disease, pneumonia, bronchitis, a whole host of more obscure ailments that even an experienced doctor such as himself was unlikely ever to treat. Through his pain, he managed to chuckle at the irony that the most reputable and relied-upon doctor in Cornwall was failing to diagnose himself.

He simply could not fathom it. Earlier the same day, he had been drinking and dining with Ross, who had invited him to dinner to thank him for something that, frankly, he had already forgotten; he accepted nonetheless. Prior to their meeting, he felt in fine form - the brisk morning air filled his lungs as he rode with haste to Nampara and he truly looked forward to the event. Upon his arrival, however, he felt a sudden and familiar pang in his chest and his lungs felt almost immediately tighter. Discomfort had turned to unmistakable and difficult-to-ignore pain when he had sat across from his friend, but he persevered with the obligation, happy to spend time with Ross, who he seemed to see less of now the pair were both married. These painful episodes were becoming more and more frequent (just as his meetings with Ross had, he noted absentmindedly), and attending such meetings only seemed to exacerbate them, but nonetheless the doctor muscled through in the name of friendship. Friendship, that was all.

Following his next body-wracking cough, Dwight gave a strained gasp; he felt as if he was suffocating. Struggling, he choked out another forced wheeze and brought his palms to the cold, tiled floor with considerable force. Amidst his panic, a strange feeling arose in his throat and reflexively he brought one hand to his mouth, expecting to cough up what he thought to be a worrying amount of blood. Writhing, he expelled another harsh rasp and immediately felt a repulsive wetness upon his palm. With a grimace, the medic withdrew his hand slowly and gave an apprehensive downwards glance.

Nothing in the world could possibly have prepared him for what he saw.

Dwight’s eyes widened, perhaps more than they ever had previously, and his jaw slackened involuntarily, remaining agape for minutes (though he thought they would have been better described as compressed hours). In his clammy hand lay three wet, pink rose petals. Shocked and endlessly perplexed, he stared down at them in complete awe. Swallowing uncomfortably and, admittedly, with a newfound timidity, he reached to examine the three specimens. Save for being covered in his saliva, they seemed perfectly normal - as if they had been freshly plucked from the flower.

Brow knitted in confusion and acute terror, Enys eased himself back to his feet, making sure to keep his balance and curb his stupor as best he could. Fist closed around the petals, he shuffled back to his bedchamber and lit a smattering of candles around the room. Setting the blossoms down carefully on the edge of an ornate dressing table, he took a selection of weighty volumes down from his bookshelf and began a rather frantic inquisition into his worrying condition.

\------------------------------------------------------

Hearing a rapping at his front door, Dwight woke with a start. With chest still burning and neck aching as a result of having slept at the dresser all night, he shot up out of his chair and kicked it backwards in a frenzy.

“I’ll be with you in a minute!” the doctor called.

Panicked, he dashed about the room, piecing together an outfit as best he could and running a comb through his embarrassingly tousled hair. All the while, he made a futile effort to ignore the rising sting in his throat.

Barely dressed and unsuitably disheveled, Enys made a run for the door, thankfully finding it had already been opened by a member of Caroline’s groundstaff. Silhouetted in the doorway stood Ross Poldark, suave as ever. Dwight unsuccessfully attempted to suppress a sharp, painful cough, and a sudden look of concern etched itself onto the captain’s face.

“Dwight, are you alright? Are you ill?” enquired Ross, heavy brow furrowed.

Enys wheezed weakly and knew that his friend would see through any attempt at a facade. “I’m afraid so.”

“Terribly sorry,” consoled Poldark, genuine concern behind his eyes, “is there anything I can do?”

“I don't believe so.” A feeble smile, and then a harsh cough. “Thank you, though.”

“You’re very welcome.” A returned smile. Dwight’s lungs burned. He swallowed a handful of petals back down discreetly, and could almost have vomited at the sickening floral notes filling his mouth and nose.

“What was it you wanted?”

“I was to invite you out riding with Demelza and myself, but I see it would be better that you get some rest.” The look on Ross’s face was unreadable, but the doctor detected some discomfort.

“Thank you,” Enys rasped, “for both the offer and the understanding, my friend.”

“Of course.”

The pair shook hands and briefly hugged, and Dwight could have sworn the contact was more akin to someone driving a knife violently through his chest. Unwillfully, tears filled his eyes and he could not quite compose himself in time to hide the physical signals of pain he was sending once the two men parted. Ross looked almost scared (a look not often sported by the captain - not a lot in the world could phase him, but it would seem his friend's discomfort pushed him past his threshold) and placed a hand on the shorter man’s arm. More pain.

“On second thoughts, perhaps I should stay a while. I’ll send correspondence to Demelza.”

“Oh, Ross, that won’t be neces-”

“I insist.”

A smile, this time forced. “Alright.”

“Now, you go back to bed. You’ve waited on my wife and I hand and foot more often than I care to mention and I think it's time I returned the favour.”

The soft look in his friend’s eyes meant that Dwight was practically at his command. He knew not why, but he felt incurably compelled to follow Ross's orders, and made for the winding staircase that led to his bedchamber. While doing so, he felt a familiar stabbing pain in both lungs, rising rapidly up into his throat as he coughed embarrassingly loudly, sure his makeshift carer could hear. Covering his mouth, he managed to cough up even more petals than before, some joined together as if they had been picked hastily from the same flower.

Once the weary doctor had once again reached his bathroom, he returned to his spot, sat helplessly on the unwelcoming ceramic tiles. Hack, cough. Cough, hack. This time, the feeling was so overwhelming that it felt identical to the sensation one feels when vomiting. When Dwight looked down at the floor, he was horrified; a whole powder-pink coloured rose lay between his legs, a trail of saliva still attaching it to his lower lip, now quivering a considerable amount. What’s more, when he picked it up after some hesitance, spots of blood could be perceived amongst the perfectly formed (impossible, impossible) petals.

“No…”

Tears threatening to fall once again, Enys lifted himself up onto his feet with tired arms, swiftly picking up the rose and depositing it into the waste bin beside the sink. Biting his tongue to prevent screams of fear and frustration from emerging, he glanced in the mirror; if he was unaware the image he saw was of himself, he would have believed it was a dead man. His skin had been drained of all colour, sunken, dark trails curled from under his eyes, and his cheeks were stained with both spit and tears in equal measure. Forcing out a last petal in a pathetic splutter, he attempted to regain his breath and traipsed over to his bed, steadying himself on a post lest he lose his stepping.

\------------------------------------------------------

Having drifted into the lightest of slumbers, Dwight was once again awoken by Ross’s appearance, though this time it was in closer quarters. Opening vaguely sleep-crusted eyes and glancing towards the seat at his bedside, he set eyes upon his closest confidant. He looked weary, too, but in a different sense - he seemed weary of his friend and what might come of him. Though sleep seemed to have helped some of his pain subside, Enys’s coughing immediately started once again once he had woken up. Somewhat frantic, he clapped both hands to his mouth to shield its contents from his concerned onlooker.

“Dwight…” began Ross, “Dwight are you alright? Are you alright?” He looked as if he might cry.

More coughing. Dwight pressed his hands more firmly to his face, grimacing at the pain and almost gagging from the amount of foliage now crowding his mouth. Ross reached up as if to remove the doctor’s hands, but the latter snapped his head around to avoid the older man’s touch.

“Dwight!”

Crying out, he could take it no longer. Letting go of his face, Dwight choked out a mixture of flowers and solitary petals, mangled beyond any sign or signal of beauty and drenched in blood and saliva. Ross looked, in equal parts, awed, worried, and disgusted. Unable to help this newfound aversion, the captain inched his chair away from his friend, unsure as to what he had just witnessed. In fact, it was entirely likely that he believed he had lost his wits, and that none of this was truly happening.

“Ross” urged Dwight, in no more than a whisper.

“What...is going on?”

A feared look and a shake of the head was all that the doctor could offer. Sympathetic, Ross shuffled closer once again, and Dwight could have sworn that the aching in his chest grew even stronger. He shut his eyes tightly and threw back his head. More petals.

“Dwight” repeated the captain, now also having taken on a more hushed tone.

“Why is it so dark, Ross?”

“What? Dwight! Dwight!” Panic set in as Ross realised there was no one to call, as the man who was so often the saviour in times such as these was lying in front of him, choking on roses and breathing in wheezes.

Eyes remaining closed, Enys reached for his friend’s hand. When their skin made contact, it felt as if someone had driven a million pins into each lung. He coughed up some more flowers, broken and wilted this time, and even more blood than before.

“Dwight!”

“I’m afraid of the dark.”

Dark red spilled from his mouth, staining his chin and the front of his creased nightshirt. Without enough warning, his eyes glazed over and movement ceased, blood and petals strewn across his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I wrote this on a phone with a broken screen and did not proofread thoroughly so I sincerely apologise for any mistakes - they are entirely my own.
> 
> And yes, those are Elizabeth's dying words. Imo it's one of the most touching and heart-wrenching lines in all of Poldark so I thought it fitting to appropriate it for my dying Dwight.


End file.
